We are favoured with a second act of the Tragedy entitled Allah ul Dien, of which the commencement was read at our last meeting. We think this more interesting than the former act, and it is certainly shorter. The Argument of the whole will be read again to recall the plot to the minds of our hearers.
But were are our “frozen Muscovites”? Has the Muse whose loss has been so much deplored run away with them in her pocket? Oh! then for some undaunted knight of elder days to mount his indefatigable palfrey, and pursue the quest not only thro’ this middle earth — but to the bottomless gulfs and aerial palaces of enchantment. We thought that the preface to the first act promised a continuation, and trust it has not evaporated.
The Advertisement for the Missing Muse has produced two answers. If that can be called an answer which does not profess to give any information on the subject. Mr Scriblerus, however, whose finger is in every pie has indicated a spell by means of which the truant Lady may be recalled, and we trust the deserted bard will not neglect to try it this very night. We hope it, both for his own sake and for that of Mr Scriblerus, who seems to have a strong appetite for the promised reward, and it might fire the ambition of a less established versemonger.
The Letters from France by the fair Lavinia are continued — but we have no second epistle from the wayward Mr Jeremy Granger, who poured forth so many invectives against his unkind Lucy. We hope that he has not foundered on his road to Rouen, or made a second Leucate of St Catherine Hill.
A Button brought from the Field of Waterloo has furnished a very sprightly little poem — though followed alas by the scanty list of the wearing apparel of him whose vest it once adorned. Little did he think, when he gaily jerked it into its appropriate hole in preparation for the glorious contest and placed in his knapsack the list of its contents, that both would be snatched from the grave by the wearer to furnish a smile to his conquerors. Yet not ignoble is their fortune — embalmed by the deathless odours of poesy and sepulchred in the shrine of the Muses.
The Festival of Nouroz is beautiful, but we do not precisely perceive the connection between the poem and the title. It appears the relation of the vision of some Persian monarch but we do not discover in what it alludes to the fête of the vernal equinox.
The specimen of a new official style is indeed original and we doubt if even in this rhyming age the fashion will be adopted. We know the authenticity of the quarter from which it is communicated, to be undoubted, or we should almost have suspected that the undaunted Mr Scriblerus had given a new proof of the fertility and versatility of his genius.
Lady Byron’s “farewell” we believe and we hope to be spurious. We think it has evident marks of having been written for the nones by someone who has studied Lord Byron’s poem but it is by no means equal to his.
The “Fête in the Sun” is amusing by showing to what strange gods we have run since we discarded the classic divinities of Greece and Rome which, tired as we may be, both of their pranks and their morality, are yet in better taste than those of any of the nations to which we have flown for variety — in this case justly termed barbarous.
The verses sent with a purse came almost too late for insertion this evening, but their merit has reversed our ordinary rules.
Many other poems we are obliged to defer. The Verses Found on a Staircase, the Epistle from Lucy, and the 2d of Mr Jeremy Granger we regret did not arrive earlier.